


You Lose By Holding Back

by toesohnoes



Category: Primeval
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, M/M, Sex Pollen, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-05
Updated: 2011-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-15 10:41:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toesohnoes/pseuds/toesohnoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor is bitten by a creature in heat, and the hormone in the bite leaves him needing sex every six hours. Trying to help a friend out, Becker has to fight his own feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> I have a huge thing for writing cracky concepts in a serious way. I can't help myself. This should be a three part series.

Becker keeps his distance, as he always has. He watches, as he always has. And he protects - faster than before, stronger than before, better.

Connor and Abby aren't how he remembers them. In his mind, they have been deified for the year; they have been perfect and clean and humble, taken from the world too soon. These days, when Connor chats back and teases him and gets them all into trouble, Becker thinks that maybe it wasn't soon enough.

Connor's face is bathed in the glowing light from the computer screen, a blue-green glow that captures Becker's attention. Matt's voice is nothing but a soothing trickle in the background. His arms are crossed over his chest and he can't help trying to deduce every missing second of the past year just by looking at Connor's glazed expression as he works - as if there might be secrets there, as if he might be able to detect them. A year ago, he could never have imagined Connor being able to survive in the past. He had been resourceful, but untrained and undisciplined, a walking disaster.

Now, he's more than that. He's a survivor. A hero.

And Becker can't stop staring.

"I'm starting to get the impression that I don't have your full attention," Matt says, nudging Becker's arm to bring him out of his thoughts. "Am I boring you?"

"Were you going on again about the new toy guns you want to design? If so, you probably were."

"We were talking about your up-coming pay review," Matt says - but the smirk on his face at the widening of Becker's eyes reveals the truth. Matt isn't as good at lying as he thinks he is. "Training with the lads. Pay attention."

Becker nods, expels the air from his lungs, and frowns with concentration. There is more to focus on now. Abby and Connor are back; life goes on.

If he wants to keep said life going on, he needs to pay attention. Lots of it.

*

And then there's an accident.

There is blood and pain and a rush to the hospital. Connor's arm is slashed and bitten, blood leaking out of it faster than they can stop. "Just hold on," Becker instructs, racing through the streets in their car while Abby and Connor are slumped in the back, trying their hardest to keep Connor alive. "It won't be much longer."

All the traffic works against him, red lights and lines of slow-moving cars. Becker clings to the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turn white, the muscles of his arms hard and tense in worry.

"There isn't enough time," Abby says. "The bleeding won't stop."

"I'm fine," Connor says. Slurred and slow, his voice doesn't sound right. He sounds as if he has fallen just out of bed. "It's nothing."

"I know," Abby confirms, soft and gentle even if the thread of panic won't vanish from her voice. "I know, you're fine."

Becker should have been faster. As he's driving, it still plays through his mind: it had all happened too quickly, speeding through in slow motion. They hadn't even known what those creatures were; something from the future, Connor had guessed. Something unknown - and something far more dangerous than they had looked.

They're dead now.

Becker knows that they are supposed to return or capture the creatures, but they had _hurt_ Connor. He hadn't been able to stop firing.

"We're close," he promises. "Just hang on."

Abby relays every promise that she can, all that and more, but Connor is fading out of consciousness by the time they reach the hospital. They're losing him - again - and Becker doesn't know whether he can survive it this time. He's not ready to find out.  


*

Despite the blood and the fainting ( _passing out_ , Connor insists, _which is perfectly acceptable when a future-dinosaur's taken a chunk out of your arm_ ) the doctors only keep him in overnight. He emerges pieced together like Frankenstein's monster, stitches holding his arm together and covered in clean white bandages.

He's put on medical leave, and for once Becker is glad that Lester knows how to be impossibly stubborn; he digs his heels in and doesn't listen to Connor as he pleads to be allowed to come back. Abby takes him home and they don't hear from them for a couple of days - life goes back to normal, almost. It returns to the previous year, a quick reversion, where the guilt had plagued Becker so heavily he couldn't sleep but where he had at least been able to think in a straight line. The pair of them confuse everything. Having them gone, even for a few days, it helps to clear his mind.

Becker goes to work. He goes home. He sleeps. He goes to work.

He doesn't call to check in with their recovering couple. It's for his own sanity as much as theirs.

Yet his eyes snap open at 3AM on the third night of Connor's leave, dreams shattered by the piercing ring of his telephone. His body is in action, getting up and leaping for it while he calculates how long it will take him to get dressed and get to the ARC. They wouldn't be calling if it wasn't an emergency.

When he answers, however, he doesn't have Jess on the other line to give him instructions. It's Abby.

"Becker? Is that you? I didn't know who else to call." Her voice wobbles. He's never heard her like this. "It's Connor. Something's wrong with him."

Becker's heart begins to race, even if his face remains impassive. His peaceful sleep already seems centuries ago. "What is it? Is he alright?"

"I don't - we don't know." In the background, he hears a cry of pain, badly muffled, and Abby's attention is distracted as she soothes Connor, her voice soft like a lullaby even if he can still hear the panic in it. "There was something in the bite."

Poison. The doctors had checked him out, had given him fresh tetnus shots, had given him a clean bill of health, yet here Becker is clinging to his phone and trying to work out what he can do to help. He pins his phone between his ear and his shoulder and rushes from place to place as he gets dressed while he listens.

"Are you taking him to the hospital?"

The silence stretches like solidified awkwardness. "I don't think a hospital could help," Abby admits.

She has a point. Modern medicine has little experience in fighting future poisons, but it's all that they have. The creature is dead. The anomaly is closed.

"The creature," Abby says, before she pauses. He can practically see her biting on her bottom lip. In the background, he can hear Connor cursing, the same words over and over and over. He tries to tie the laces of his boots too quickly and ends up in a confused knot around his fingers. "It was trying to mate when it bit Connor. We think there must have been something in the saliva. Something designed to get the female - _you know_."

Becker nearly drops the phone.

"What are you saying?" he asks cautiously.

"He's in pain, Becker," Abby says, her voice dropping low. "He needs help. I don't know who else to call."

Becker swallows hard and promises that he'll be there in five minutes. He tells himself that this won't be the weirdest thing that he's ever done for this job, and maybe that's true. The very definition of the word is starting to blur.  


*

He barely takes a step into their apartment, let in by Abby still in her pyjamas, before he finds himself pinned against the wall. Connor drops out of view before Becker can catch his breath, kneeling on the floor in front of him with his hands scrambling to pull away Becker's trousers. His face is red and stained with tear-tracks, but it's hard to focus at all when Connor's mouth abruptly engulfs his traitorous cock, already stirring with interest.

He presses his hands against Connor's shoulders, ready to push him backwards, but the pained whine that erupts from Connor's chest is enough to make him stop. It sounds as if he just tried to kick him in the stomach. Uncertain, he stops pushing and tries to hold in the shivering moans that he feels when Connor sucks furiously at his cock.

Looking up, he finds Abby's eyes wide and gazed as she stares down at the top of Connor's head, her hands covering her mouth. "Abby," Becker pants. He's fully hard in Connor's mouth by now, and the violent bobbing of Connor's head makes it almost impossible to keep control - it's been a long time, such a long time, since he's had anything but his own hand on him. This is a practical joke, and a cruel one at that. Burying his fingers into Connor's thick hair, he can barely stop his hands from trembling.

"I don't know," Abby says. "He just - There's something wrong with him."

Connor answers with a long, winding groan around Becker's cock, the vibrations strong enough to steal Becker's breath. His hand tightens in Connor's hair, even though he doesn't mean to let it, even though he doesn't have the right. He doesn't know what's happening here, what he's doing, but there are boundaries: strong ones. Fooling himself into believing that he is here because they want him to be here would be a mistake.

Connor makes several gagging sounds as he swallows him deeper, but he won't pull back. Whatever is driving him now is stronger than his biological gag reflex, and even with tears stinging at his eyes he sucks on Becker with a desperation he usually reserves for battles for his life. Becker bends over, his body contracting as his climax rises - it's going to be over so quickly. Every nerve ignites, and he hunches over until his stomach muscles ache, pushing himself forward into Connor's wet mouth as he comes, spilling down Connor's mouth with a frustrated shout held in check by his clenched teeth.

Leaving Becker to catch his breath and tidy himself up, Connor gets to his feet in record time. His eyes look glazed, his face is flushed and his hair is messier than usual - he looks as if Becker has ruined him, utterly. Without a word he strides to the sink, filling a glass of water and gulping it down as quickly as he can, nearly choking himself in the process.

"What just happened?"

Abby stares at him, then turns her head to look at Connor. Neither of them seem inclined to answer him; there might not be an answer at all. Rubbing his hand across his face, Becker wonders if he's still asleep, if this is simply the most bizarre wet dream that his subconscious could conjure on short notice.

"I think you just got the blowjob of a lifetime, mate," Connor suggests, clinging onto his glass of water like it's a lifeline. There might be a smile on his face, dimples on show, but it doesn't look right, doesn't feel right. "Most blokes wouldn't be complaining right now."

"You were in pain," Becker says. "The bite has done something, hasn't it?"

He can remember Abby's panicked explanation over the phone, but he needs to believe that it is something more realistic than that, more plausible.

"It's fine now. I feel fine. No pain at all." Connor waggles the fingers of one hand at them as if that ought to prove anything at all. "Seriously."

Becker looks towards Abby. She's been silent, but she seems more likely than Connor to be rational about this, to actually give it a second thought. She swallows, and meets Becker's gaze. "Can you stay the night?" she asks. "We can make up the couch."

It's difficult to process that she is asking him to stay in case Connor once more lapses into such uncontrollable pain that only giving head can cure it. Becker decides against trying to process it at all, and instead opts for following orders. He sleeps on the couch with a crick in his neck while Abby and Connor retreat to their bedroom, Abby's hand nervously lingering on Connor's shoulder.

Becker doesn't expect to sleep, his mind too filled with questions and worries, but within an hour his eyes have closed and his breathing has evened out, his thoughts fading to dreams.

Within four hours, however, he is woken up again, wrenched from sleep for the second time that night as Abby shakes him brutally. "Becker. Becker, wake up. It's happening again."

It's difficult to process what she is saying, straight out of sleep, but she yanks him to his feet and he walks with her through the darkened flat as his mind starts to wake up like his body. The sun is starting to rise outside, glowing through the drawn blinds, and he needs to be at the ARC in just a couple of hours.

"Connor?" he says as he enters the room. Abby doesn't follow him inside, lingering in the doorway instead. He wishes she would accompany him; he would feel like less of an invader. Connor is a curled lump on the bed, clutching his stomach while he groans quietly. The duvet is a tangled mound on the ground, kicked brutally away from him. Becker gingerly sits down on the edge of the bed. "Connor, can you hear me?"

"I'm not deaf," Connor sniffs, as petulant as a sick child. It makes Becker swallow an indulgent smile. "Let's just get this over with, alright?"

Becker isn't hard, not at all, but that doesn't stop Connor from crawling over the mattress to reach for his trousers, pulling them open for the second time that night. He leans over, careful with his wounded arm, and takes Becker's limp cock into his mouth with no hesitation, sucking on it sharply with a loud slurping sound. Breath hisses between Becker's teeth in wounded surprise, and he closes his eyes, urges himself to get hard, to get this over with. Connor had felt fine afterwards, last time.

He tries to let his mind transport him elsewhere, tries to picture them like this in another situation: Connor sucking him desperately because he _wants_ to, because he wants him hard enough to be able to take him against the bed and fuck him in abandon. Thinking of how Connor might look if he was doing this willingly, the blood starts to rush where he needs it, responding to a mixture of blind fantasies and the insistent, desperate sucking of Connor's mouth.

If he opens his eyes, he'll find nothing appealing. Like a patient faced with a needle, this is nothing more than an unpleasant medical necessity - and this isn't what Becker had wanted, not ever. He's watched Connor, wanted him, felt those pangs of jealousy when he saw him with Abby, but this isn't right. It feels disgusting.

He tries to push it away, because he has to focus on the wickeder thoughts if he wants this to be over quickly for Connor, but he feels unclean.

By the time they're done, he needs a shower, leaving Abby and Connor in uncomfortable silence as he aims directly for their bathroom.

*

He goes to work and keeps his phone on him at all times, just in case. Abby and Connor are still on medical leave, and he has to admit to being nervous about leaving them alone - and he doesn't get nervous. Not at war, not facing down dinosaurs, and certainly not while waiting to find out if Connor is still infected with a prehistoric poison.

He's called back before lunchtime, so he dashes off with an excuse about sandwiches. He makes it back within half an hour.

"Thanks for bringing food back for the rest of us," Matt mutters sarcastically, with a shove to Becker's arm.

Becker doesn't retort, just apologises and promises that he'll remember next time. His cock, limp in his pants, is distracting and over-worked.

There's another frantic call by mid-afternoon, and this time it's harder to slip away - but he manages it, claiming a stomach ache. "We can't carry on like this," Becker says when they're done, all three of them standing at alternate sides of the room. "It's every four hours now."

"It might calm down soon," Connor says, picking at the corner of his dressing. "We don't know."

"Exactly. We don't know. It's time we got some help."

"What? Shall I just pop down to the Dinosaur Doctor and get him to fix me up? No one's gonna know what to do with this."

Becker shakes his head. "Then we'll find someone who can work it out. Calling me home from work isn't a long-term option. What are we going to do when there's a creature breathing down our necks and you suddenly have to..."

He can't say it. Won't say it. He doesn't think he even knows how to put it into words.

Connor's cheeks are scarlet and he is staring down at his scuffed shoes. "Maybe we're not doing it right," Connor says.

Abby straightens from where she had been slouched against the wall. "What d'you mean?" she asks.

"Well. When it - when it happens, I just..." Connor clears his throat. "It's hard to explain. It's like I need- _it_ inside me. Like that's all I can think about and I know that's what's going to make the pain stop. Nothing else'll do it."

Abby glances towards Becker for a second, and then back to Connor - Becker takes care to leave his face extraordinarily blank. He can already feel his stomach churning.

"So what're you saying?" Abby asks.

The pause that follows is uncomfortable enough to burn his ears, to leave him longing to run somewhere far, far away from this nonsense. Eventually, though, Connor speaks, and Becker's jaw clenches hard. "Maybe it's not, y'know, my mouth I should be using. I mean, you know, maybe it's - maybe I'm supposed to be going further than that. It might last longer if it did."

Becker breathes through his nose as calmly as he is capable of doing, counting every breath and trying to distance his thoughts from his body. If he doesn't do that, he might go mad. He might shout at the pair of them and that isn't fair - this isn't their fault. Connor is the victim here and Becker isn't sure what that makes him, but it definitely doesn't make him the good guy. He isn't the knight in shining armour or the sharp-shooting soldier in this scenario.

"Becker," Abby says, and her voice is drawing him back down to earth even if he needs to stay away. "What do you think?"

"No," he answers, the word spilling out before he can think it through. What is there to think about?

 _It's no different from what you've already done_ , one part of his mind whispers, the part that would do anything that it took to protect these two people, the part that would willingly leap into a pit of future predators if that was what was required to keep them safe.

There's another part, a strong part, that revolts at the idea, stomach clenching - because it's not fair, and he's not a toy soldier, and he has feelings even when he wishes he didn't, even when he would be better at his job if he could turn them off.

"Becker - " Connor starts, but Becker shakes his head before he has to listen.

If he listens, he will change his mind; he will break.

He can't do that.

"Please, mate, I'm - I'm actually literally begging you, here." Connor gives a humourless laugh, bitter in a way that Becker has never heard him before. "I know it's not the kind of thing we'd normally do, but this isn't normal. It won't be forever."

Becker thinks that maybe he could laugh too, struck by the sheer, empty oddity of their situation - but his face stays blank. His hands are tucked neatly behind his back, ever the soldier, and he shakes his head. "I won't do it. I'm sorry."

And he is. He is sorry to see the desperation in Connor's eyes and the flickers of betrayal on Abby's face, and he is sorry to be letting them down - but that doesn't stop him from leaving.

He should stay, and he can feel a cowardly tug on his conscience as he keeps his head low and aims for the door, unable to stay and face it. _Tactical retreat_ , he tells himself as he leaves the apartment behind and takes the stairs when the elevator won't come quickly enough. His feet hammer on concrete, and he feels as if he is running from something with sharp teeth and poisonous venom himself.

 _Coward coward coward._

He makes it half way down the long flights of stairs, to a concrete and bland stairwell, before Connor catches up with him, crashing down the stairs. Becker's muscles strain to run, but he reins himself in - that's one last humiliation that he can try to avoid.

"Becker, mate," Connor says, out of breath from the dash to catch up with him. "Please. I know this sucks, but..."

"Don't," Becker warns him. He holds his hand up between them, because he can't have Connor near him right now.

This is all messing with his head.

"No. I'm sorry, but no," Connor insists. "I'm not leaving. I don't - Becker, I don't have anywhere else to turn. No one else."

They both know that that isn't true. Connor has many directions in which he could turn; friends and colleague and, if it came to that, he could find or hire a stranger. There are a lot of options open here - and every single one of them makes Becker feel ill. He closes his eyes and breathes through his nose. "I can't help," he forces himself to say. He's making this about himself when he knows that it's supposed to be about Connor; Connor is the one suffering from the effects, the one violated. Becker is nothing but a skulking predator. "I can't."

"It's just sex," Connor snaps, voice raising in a way that Becker has never heard from him before. If their positions were reversed, he would guarantee that Connor wouldn't view it this way. "It's _nothing_ , just - just a favour. Why can't you help me out?"

 _Fine_ , Becker thinks, _Let him see._

He surges forward, hands cupping either side of Connor's face, holding him in place when he flinches backwards, until he can smash their lips together, ugly and violent. He's imagined kissing Connor a thousand times, and it's never been like this, never been bitter enough to make him feel sick. Connor's teeth grit together and Becker releases him after barely a second. "That's why," he pants, stepping backwards and running the back of his hand over his mouth. "Because it's not 'just sex'. Not for me, not with you."

Connor doesn't speak. That in itself is almost enough. Stealing the words from Connor's mouth is an almost impossible task; silence doesn't suit him. It makes him look broken.

Now his eyes are wide with shock and Becker is happy to turn his back on him, scurrying down the rest of the stairs undeterred - like a rat running back to its hole, ashamed, embarrassed and horrified.


	2. The Middle

With Connor still absent, it is surprisingly easy to avoid him for a few days - long enough for Becker to clear his head and gain some much-needed perspective. Matt accuses him of being off his game, and Jess watches him with doe-eyed worry, but he is able to deflect their concern with a few sarcastic remarks. It's an excellent armour; he only wishes that it worked as well as creatures as it did on co-workers.

By the following Monday, Connor is back on duty. He smiles a little less than usual, and there is constant exhaustion on his face, but other than that he is exactly how everyone expects him to be - endlessly enthusiastic about their work, and competent in a slap-dash kind of way.

There's no sign of the illness. Becker doesn't think that that means it's gone.

Connor and Abby both manage to keep out of his way at work in a way that ought to be impossible for such a tight-knit team, but between creature incursions and Connor's odd lab work with Philip, there just isn't time to corner them.

That makes it either a relief or a curse when he ends up staking out a sealed anomaly with Abby. It's difficult to tell which particular emotion is stronger in this instance.

At the moment, however, it's mostly awkward. Abby won't look at him. Won't talk to him. Just sits and stares at the anomaly, her face blank, her mind elsewhere.

Becker clears his throat, far too quietly to attract her attention - even if the thought is there, the will isn't. "How is he?" he rasps. It sounds as if he hasn't drunk in years.

Abby's eyes are like razors when she looks at him, as blue as an electric sky. "Connor?" she asks.

 _Who else?_ Becker could reply, but he values his life: he just nods.

"He's..." A sigh bursts from her and she shakes her head, looking away from him. "He's exactly how you would expect him to be."

"He's taking it badly?"

"No. That's the problem." Abby runs her fingers through her hair, tugging at it for a moment before she lets go. "He keeps saying he's fine, that there's no problem - like this is normal."

The tension in her shoulders looks as if it is apt to snap at any moment. Becker looks down at his gun, counting the seconds and waiting for the right words to spring into his mouth. They won't come.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I can't leave him. He needs me." There's an inherent criticism there, whether Abby means it or not. She's staying: Becker left. One of them is the bad guy here. "He's not okay. He's just- He's Connor."

As answers go, it isn't the clearest, but Abby returns her gaze to the anomaly and Becker can see the physical shift on her face as she closes herself off from him again. It's like watching a door slam down in front of him, hard and metal and impossible to penetrate. She is more distant than she was even when trapped in the past.

Nodding to himself, he tells himself that he deserves it, he's earned it. He focuses his attention on the anomaly once more, and struggles to stop thinking at all.

*

The building is empty of the public - thank god for bank holidays - but the roaring and screams of the creatures roaming the corridors prove that this place is far from peaceful. There's a pack of them, large with sharp claws and razor teeth, and they're getting hungrier by the second.

The problem, of course, is that the team rushed in here with a plan.

To be more precise, Connor rushed in without a plan. Becker rushed in after him.

And now they're hiding in the janitor's closet, with cleaning supplies and large boxes filled with toilet paper around them, while the pack hunts outside to find them. Becker's gun is lying outside in the hallway, borrowed as a brief chew-toy.

Time is passing too slowly. Someone should have come to rescue them by now.

The seconds are like an executioner's axe. Becker's eyes dash towards Connor: again, again, again.

"I've got fifteen minutes," Connor reassures him, catching his eye. They've been in here for two hours already, with the creatures lunging for the door whenever they try to escape. It's ridiculous. Becker is a trained soldier. He isn't supposed to get trapped in closets.

"We'll get you out of here," Becker promises. He edges towards the door, touches the handle - and instantly hears a snarl from the other side. The door rattles as a heavy weigh slams against it, but the lock holds. Becker retreats, and looks around the cupboard once more for something that might help.

Nothing has magically appeared since he last looked.

"Becker, they'll come for us," Connor assures him. "They know where we are."

It's true, yes, but it's been hours already - something is wrong, not just with them. There must be a problem preventing help from getting here. The ARC is stretched too thin. It's inevitable that something is going to go wrong. The creatures have so far shown little interest in breaking down the door, lying in the corridor outside like sated lions until they are disturbed, but that doesn't mean that they will stay docile forever.

And there is, of course, the more pressing problem, the ticking time bomb in Connor's veins, the deadline creeping up on them, and Becker can tell what is going to happen, can feel the anticipation coiling like a snake in his groin. There's a part of him that can't wait, and that part makes his hands restless, makes him fidget and twitch and look at his watch.

Seconds pass. They sit together, slumped against the back wall, waiting for something to happen, knowing that it has to.

"You don't have to do it, you know," Connor says, as rescue starts to seem less and less likely. "I mean, I'll be fine. It's not like I'll die or anything."

"You'll be in pain," Becker states. He knows. He's seen it. "I can't sit back and allow that to happen."

"This isn't something you have to rescue me from," Connor says quietly. He looks at his hands instead of at Becker. "I know what it's like. If this had been Abby, and it had happened to her back when I was just _thinking_ about her, I don't know... I honestly don't know what I would have done."

"You love her," Becker says. "You would have done what's necessary."

And he doesn't 'love' Connor. It's not as simple as that, not as pure. There's something primal about it, something that's all need and jealousy and hunger, and it's almost too much for him to take. Too much to fight.

That's why, when their time is up and Connor's breathing tightens with pain, it is too, too easy to kiss him again. It's different from the first time. Now, when his fingertips drag over Connor's jaw and their lips brush together, Connor surges forward, the pressure against their mouths so tight that it almost aches. Becker's eyes slide closed and he feels it, the exact moment that he allows his morality and emotions to fall away. It's like there's something breaking inside his chest.

They slip down to the floor and in a distracted tangle they get rid of their trousers, groaning as skin presses against skin. Connor is limp beneath him, but Becker takes him in hand with no hesitation, exploring and pumping his cock. Connor breathes his name, and there's something sweet about it, something perfectly broken. Becker brushes his mouth against Connor's full lips, knowing that they don't have time. They aren't making love, as much as he might want to pretend that they are. This is a military operation, a task of guardianship.

There are also the bored creatures outside to keep in mind.

He eased Connor over and onto his knees; the pained hiss and whimper as he moves is enough to make Becker's conscience flinch, as if he is doing it himself. "Check my pocket," Connor instructs. He sounds winded, as if someone has punched him in the chest.

Fumbling into Connor's jeans for him, Becker finds several sachets of lube inside, dropping them onto the floor in his fumbling hurry to get it out. He tries not to think about the implications of the stash, tries to think about all of the people that Connor has had to be with, how many people have helped him out with this pain. His hands are steady and firm as he rips open the packet and smears lube over his already aching cock.

The lube is watery and slick as he pours it out onto his fingers, slipping and sliding when he reaches between Connor's cheeks to probe at his hole. Two fingers slip inside with ease, and Connor gives a sigh of relief at the intrusion, like he's finally getting what he's been waiting for. He is relaxed despite the instinctive, poisonous pain, and it's easy to prepare him: "Don't worry about it - I'm fine. Great," Connor tells him. "Trust me."

And Becker does ( _has_ ) trusted Connor with his life and more in the past. He eases his fingers out of Connor's ass and takes his word for it, taking himself in hand and aligning himself with Connor. One short push is all it takes for the head to pop inside, then slide deeper, the sound of Connor's long groan rumbling throughout the entire room. It sends a shiver down Becker's spine and he barely manages to restrain the sounds that want to escape from his open mouth.

He withdraws slowly, but it's impossible to keep up a pace like that when Connor is tight and panting beneath him. Becker has slept with men before, brief fumblings in the dark and nothing more, and it hasn't been like this. It hasn't been painfully perfect, everything that he wants but can't have.

Hand reaching beneath Connor, he takes hold of his cock and squeezes, starting up a fast rhythm once he has the tension just right. Connor says his name, over and over, like an appeal to a benevolent god, and it makes Becker's chest swell with pride, makes his balls tingle and draw close before he slams in hard and comes, spilling out into Connor in record time.

He knows that it's over, that his task is done, but even once he's withdrawn he can't back away, easing Connor onto his back and then leaning down. "Tell me if this isn't okay," he urges, but Connor doesn't protest at all when he descends, taking the tip of his cock into his mouth. The head is salty with precum as Becker tongues against the slit, before ducking lower to take more of it in.

He sucks and swallows and his head bobs, taking Connor further and further inside, but it hardly takes any efforts before Connor is twisting beneath him, as tight as a coil, and coming with a cry into Becker's mouth. Semen floods over his tongue and Becker pulls back, swallowing it with little other option. The taste clings to his mouth. He pants to get his breath back, and his worried gaze flickers back to Connor again and again, unable to stay away for long.

"Are you alright? Does it still hurt?" he checks eventually, his words shorter than usual, clipped. His mind is racing and he isn't yet sure where his thoughts are going to land.

Connor looks dazed as well, his fingers fumbling as he hurries to redress himself, wriggling back into his tight jeans as Becker averts his gaze. "It's fine," he says. "It passed, like it always does."

There's a hard, bitter twist in his voice, almost like an accusation - not aimed at Becker, not exactly, but at the world at large, as if it's done this to him out of malicious intent.

"Thanks," he continues, after clearing his throat. "You didn't have to do that."

"Connor, I-"

"No. I mean. You didn't have to make it good." Connor's cheeks are reddening, as if talking about it is worse than doing it. "Whether or not I, y'know, get off... It doesn't make a difference."

Becker nods, unsure if this is a criticism or not. Maybe he overstepped his boundaries; maybe he should have known to leave Connor alone. "Who usually does it now?" he asks, although he knows that he doesn't really want to know, that this isn't information that he can handle. He still needs to ask; he needs to hear. Maybe Connor needs to tell him.

His answer is a clumsy shrug. "I dunno. Lester, Matt, Philip. Some of the other soldiers - they pitch in?" He gives a laugh like broken glass. "It's just work, right? It's like an injection."

"It shouldn't be like that."

"I'm working on it. I'm trying to isolate what's going on, how it all works. If I can break it down enough, maybe I'll be able to work out a cure."

Becker nods, but he isn't counting on it. Connor is the smartest person that he knows, buried beneath his easy smiles and his hats, but that doesn't mean he's a scientist. It would be easier if they could farm this out to someone else, to a team of white-coated professionals who could blitz through the work - but resources are too tight and this secret is too precious.

"In the meantime," Connor says, his face brightening as he locks everything into a tight box in the back of his brain, "We're still stuck in here."

Becker glances warily at the door. "That we are," he agrees, "unless you feel like wrestling a pack of creatures to get out."

"Bare handed? Maybe not."

"Then we'll just have to wait."

It should be a far more terrifying prospect than it is, especially with how awkward the air between them has been for the past few weeks, but it surprises him how comfortable he feels. Considering what they'd just done, and the condom wrappers and spilt lube littering the floor, Becker expects his words to fail him and Connor's face to flush. Instead, Connor says, "Want to play I Spy?" mournfully, and Becker's mouth twitches with a smile, feeling more at ease than he has in days.  


*

Life reverts back to its bizarre version of 'normal'. Becker doesn't help out with Connor's condition, but he doesn't have to avoid Connor as if he has the plague either. They're not friends, not exactly, but they're back to whatever they were before - close colleagues, closer than they would be in any other workplace, but nothing more than that.

Becker doesn't know if that's enough, not when he can remember the feel of Connor's skin beneath his hands, his lips against his own, that hungry shared kiss. It had been different before. Perfunctory oral sex had been enough to haunt his mind, but _this_... Being with Connor this time had felt like it was more than a chore for Connor, as if he had wanted to be there as much as Becker had. Self-delusion, he knows. Connor is with Abby; he loves her, desperately. He's loved her for far longer than Becker has been on the scene, and it's good. They are good.

Yet there's something in Becker's chest, something angry and bitter, that burns when he sees Connor retreats into Lester's office. The blinds are drawn with a sharp snap, and Becker turns his head away, staring at the computer screens over Jess's shoulder with an intensity that hurts his eyes. The colours blur in front of him until he can't see a thing.

"You're hovering," Jess observes, glancing up at him. "I don't mind it or anything, but... You're hovering."

An uncertain smile plays on her lips as she looks up at him, sweet and shyly confident. He can see the admiration in her eyes and wishes that he had fallen for her; she's the kind of girl that he could imagine a life with.

"I'll move," he says, with an unconscious glance towards Lester's office. The ugly beast in his chest scratch along his ribs, roaming and wishing that he would let it escape. "Sorry."

"No. No, it's fine. I like it. It's - It's nice." Smiling, she settles her gaze back on her computer screen, fingers flying. "Besides, you'll get the best view of Lester's office from here. That's what you're looking for, right?"

Becker's eyebrows rise. For a second, it is very tempting to lie, but he clears his throat. "I'd consider standing right outside the door, but it might give them a fright."

"Just don't try walking in on them," Jess advises. "I did that once by mistake. Not a pretty sight."

It's stuck in his head like a horror movie, Lester bent over Connor's body in focused exertion, his face flustered and red and his braces slipping down from his shoulders, neatly pressed trousers dropped to his ankles. It feels like the kind of image that he will never be able to escape from, harsh like a physical assault. Shaking his head does nothing to dislodge it.

"They'll be done in a minute. It's like clockwork." She tweaks a setting on her computer and then looks back at the map, roaming to check for anomalies. "I have no idea how Abby puts up with it. I don't think I could."

Becker nods without saying anything, holding his tongue because he knows that he can't reply to that; he can't take part in the gossip, and he hates knowing that what Connor is going through is common knowledge throughout the ARC, something to be discussed and shared. It makes him a character in a soap opera, someone unreal without feelings. It makes it easier to forget what lies beneath. Not with Jess, not her, but the others - the soldiers, the scientists, the staff who aren't on first-name terms with Connor but who know the stories anyway. Their lives are too exciting not to talk about.

A minute later, the door to Lester's office opens and Connor slips out, red-faced and crumpled. Head down, he makes for the bathroom without catching anyone's eye or offering a single goofy smile. Becker's eyes track him the entire way, the sound of Jess's typing a dull background.

He slips away, trailing Connor without remembering to say goodbye to Jess. She doesn't seem to notice anyway, absorbed in her work. Becker slips into the bathrooms just after Connor, to find him bent over the sink, splashing water onto his flushed face. At the swinging of the door he looks up, meeting Becker's eyes in the mirror. Becker can see the signs of sleeplessness on his face: dark smudges under his eyes and a paler pallor than usual.

Becker leans against the wall near the doorway, and watched as Connor finished cleaning himself up.

"Want to go out for a drink tonight?" Becker asks, mouth moving without his brain being involved. Connor's spine stiffens. "A friendly drink. That's all."

 _No sex or blowjobs, I promise_ , he could add, but he thinks that it's implied.

In the mirror, he can see the cautious smile that twitches on Connor's face, shallow dimples appearing in his cheeks. "Why not?" he says. "I could do with a night out."

They both could, Becker thinks, but the anomaly alarms ring before they can make any further plans, and the pair of them propel themselves into action - adrenaline pumping, normality resuming for another few hours.

*

Becker doesn't have a 'local', but if he did it wouldn't be this. The pub is dark and shadowy, with the smell of stale beer lingering in the air. There are a few assorted groups of men in shady corners and the bar top is sticky with spilt drink.

Connor, predictably, loves it.

Becker, on the other hand, contemplates whether or not it is feasible to hold his breath for the entire visit. At this stage, he's not sure whether the fumes or the oxygen deprivation would be worse for his health.

"I've not been in a pub in ages," Connor says, as they slip into a dark corner with a quiet table. "Not since, y'know, that case by the sea. Which you weren't even there for, skiver."

"I had a reasonable excuse."

"Nah, we all know you had your heels up, watching _Loose Women_ and eating cereal right out the box."

"You caught me," Becker gives in. "I'm a secret slacker. Don't tell Lester."

"You think I would dare?" Connor's smile is bright enough to make any man's heartache: simple and sweet and alive. He shines like the sun. "Let's make a rule, alright? Just for tonight, no work talk. No anomalies, no dinosaurs, definitely no poison talk. What d'you think?"

In the end, Becker thinks it may have been the best idea that their miniature genius has ever come up with. It might make him nervous, palms sweating, but they settle down easily enough - discussing high school experiences and Becker's time in the army, Connor's aborted attempt at getting a tattoo and Becker's father's horror when he dropped out of the football team. He misses school; Connor doesn't. Becker was popular there; Connor wasn't.

"You should've come to my school," Becker says. "I could've watched your back."

"Yeah, right. You'd have been the one shoving my head down the loo," Connor answers, nudging his ankle beneath the table. Becker nudges back, and when they stop they leave their legs where they are, comfortably tangled. Becker can feel the heat of Connor's leg through the material of his jeans, and it feels better than anything more explicit would have. He relaxes further against the bar's couch.

He teases Connor and Connor fights back, a light in his eyes that shows the ticking of his brain. He's too fast, but Becker can keep up with him. He's always been able to.

"It's getting late," Becker points out, after the night has worn on. The old and hunched regulars have left, and the group of girls who had briefly been flanking the jukebox have left in a cloud of giggles hours ago. Now, the barman stands behind the counter with his eyes on the television screen across the bar.

Their glasses are empty, but they aren't anywhere near drunk. Becker refuses to let his control down that much - just in case. Connor's smile is easy, but that's a sign of contentment rather than inebriation. "Want to take it back to yours?" Connor offers.

"Won't Abby mind?" Becker asks, careful with his words. He doesn't know what is happening there, not exactly, but he can tell that something is not quite right between them. A lot of somethings, actually.

Connor begins to wriggle into his jacket, trying to shrug at the same time. "She's going to be mad at me whether or not I stay out late," he says. "I'm kind of resigned to it."

"Trouble in paradise?" Becker asks, getting to his feet.

Connor's smile is already cracking; Becker starts to regret getting onto this topic at all. He should have known better.

"Is it paradise when one of you is shagging around?"

"It's not as if you have a choice."

"Don't think that really matters. I'm still doing it." Connor's jaw clenches, and Becker's eyes are drawn to the muscle there, to the soft patch of skin barely dusted with stubble. "I dunno. It doesn't feel good, doing this to her. Doesn't feel fair."

Becker can't argue with him. It's hard enough for him to watch it happening and he has no claim to Connor, no excuse for the bitter knot that forms in his chest when he thinks about it. "Have you talked to her about it?" he asks, walking slowly towards the exit of the pub with Connor.

Connor shrugs. "We don't actually talk about much at all these days," he says. "Definitely not that."

They lived together, worked together too. Images of frosty dinners and stilted conversations spring into his mind - yet another hardship that he doesn't know how to rescue them from. He's starting to get the impression that he isn't nearly as good at being their soldier as he would like to be.

They amble towards his apartment, walking close enough for their shoulders to brush. "I probably can't stay long," Connor says when Becker leads him inside. "My nightly appointment, in it's an hour or so."

Heading for the kitchen to see if he has anything to offer him, Becker frowns for a moment until the meaning hits him and his stomach twists. He won't ask who it is that Connor will be seeing this time, now that his six-hour window has passed. It is dark outside and the moon has been out for hours, but someone must be on the night shift, someone must be waiting for Connor.

His hand lingers on the fridge door; he could offer, he knows. Connor is right here and it would save a lot of trouble to simply offer to do the job. Simple, professional, and they could watch television together afterwards, pretend that they are friends and that nothing is strange here. They could lie. They could act. It might even be easy.

He pushes the thought from his mind before it can go any further, but when he closes the fridge with two chilled bottles of beer in hand there is a presence behind him. Turning, he finds Connor so close that he could just stretch his fingers out to touch him. A moment later, he doesn't have to. Connor closes the gap himself, his hand pressing against the nape of Becker's neck so that he can pull him close and kiss him. Becker's mouth barely moves but he doesn't have to - Connor does all of the work, his tongue licking past Becker's defences with ease.

Fumbling, Becker reaches back in order to place his bottles on the kitchen counter. With his hands free he can reach for Connor's hips and drag him forward, lost already. "Connor," he breathes against the needy onslaught of Connor's mouth. "What are we doing?"

It isn't time yet for Connor to have become lost in the poison. The pain can't have started. He's here and he's thinking clearly and he's still in Becker's space, he's still kissing him senseless, and this time it is him.

"Connor," Becker groans again. He's fighting against the temptation to turn them around so that he can thump Connor back against the fridge; his willpower won't last forever. "What's going on?"

"I just-" Connor nips at his bottom lip, holding onto the front of Becker's shirt to keep him close. "I dunno. I want to do this."

"Are you hurting?" Becker asks. "Has it come early?"

"No, no. It's nothing like that. It's just me."

Becker's breath shivers with anticipation, because that is the kind of thing he has wanted to hear for a long time. His head drops down until his forehead sits against Connor's shoulder; he needs a way to clear his head, but that isn't going to happen, not like this, not with Connor's body so warm against him. "Call in," he says, eyes screwed shut. "Tell them I'll handle it for tonight. After this, though, we have to talk."

"You really want to have a heart-to-heart over this?" Connor asks, and Becker can hear that overtone of bemusement in his voice. He has Connor in his arms, warm and willing; Becker can't explain it either. He needs everything to be settled. Living in this constant flux isn't good for anyone involved. There are too many soft emotions on the line.

Becker growls out Connor's name and is rewarded - punished - when Connor pulls away to retrieve his phone from his jacket pocket. His eyes linger where they shouldn't, his gaze explores, and he knows that there are a thousand reasons why he shouldn't allow this to happen. He ought to be strong enough to realise when a friend is falling apart, and turn him away.

He's not.

He accepts that.

And when Connor's phone is tucked away once more, Becker has no issues with guiding him eagerly towards his bed.


	3. Chapter Three

When morning comes they go once more, with Connor's face pressed against the pillow and Becker stifling groans against the nape of his neck. He makes breakfast for them both afterwards and watches Connor with a wary eye, waiting for something, looking for a sign.

"I'm alright," Connor says. "You're watching me like I'm about to explode."

Becker looks down at his eggs and tries to control his gaze. "I'm trying to work out what's happening," he admits. "What are you up to?"

He knows without looking up that Connor's smile will be bright and it won't reach his eyes. There will be a hollow fist at its heart. "I'm not up to anything. You know me."

"Unfortunately," Becker mutters, and maybe this time the twitch of amusement on Connor's face might be a little more genuine. "I'm worried, Connor. That's all."

"Well. Don't be. I'm fine."

"You just slept with me behind Abby's back. Twice."

"Abby knows what I have to do," Connor mumbles.

"Is that what it was about?" Becker can remember the way that they took their time, exploring and laughing together. He remembers the way that Connor had sighed his name; it hadn't been a chore, it hadn't been work, it hadn't been a cure. "Just another quick shag to make the pain stop?"

He sees the way that Connor's jaw clenches, and he watches the way that he breathes in through his nose, nice and slow. "I love Abby," Connor says. "I always have."

Becker nods. That much is painfully clear. "But?"

"I... I don't know. I don't know what I'm doing any more and I don't know what I want or what she wants or anything. I don't know anything."

Reaching out, Becker places his hand over Connor's. He isn't surprised when Connor flinches away, but it still hurts. "I want you. I think I've made that clear." He knows that he has been as blunt about that as he could possibly be. Connor can't not know, now. "But that's not the point. You and Abby, whatever's going on there, it should be sorted out before this goes any further. If you want it to."

Connor rubs his hand across his face, looking as stunned as if someone had slapped him and ran off. Anxiety makes Becker's stomach clench, but he's used to handling danger. It's usually a physical, dinosaur-centred threat instead of an emotional one, but right now he would happily face down a Spinosaurus.

"It's going to be alright. We'll sort everything out," Becker promises, as if he can see a solution. Sometimes, lying is an essential part of protecting someone.

Connor nods, but he hardly seems to be listening. "We ought to get to work," he mutters. "We'll be late."

Nodding, Becker allows the matter to drop. They listen to the radio on the drive to work and Connor chats as if everything is normal. If he fidgets or bites his fingernails more than usual, Becker turns a willingly blind eye.

*

Abby corners him in the locker room, while he is shirtless and his hair is still wet from his shower: he decides, later, that she must have done it on purpose. She knows far more about tactics than she lets on.

"You'll take care of him, won't you?" she asks.

The harsh metal in her voice makes it sound like an accusation. Becker freezes, holds his breath, and waits to see what happens next.

"I'm not angry at you," Abby insists. She steps forward as she says it, as if she's closing in for a punch. It makes it difficult to believe her. "You're helping out. That's good. But - Promise me you won't hurt him."

Becker's mind spins. He wants to run to find Connor immediately to work out what is going on, but he doesn't dare to move an inch. Abby's eyes are like raw lightning. "I won't," he promises, and he's surprised by the choked rasp in his voice. He clears his throat before he speaks again. "I would never."

"I'll lock you in with the mammoth if you do," Abby warns. Her voice trembles when she speaks and Becker wants to punch something: the wall, the creatures, Connor himself. Abby doesn't deserve any of this.

"He hurt you," Becker points out. "What are you going to do to him?"

He can't imagine her locking Connor away with dangerous creatures, but something tells him that Connor might deserve it. Yet all she does is shake her head, her shoulders raised defensively. "It wasn't him," she says. "The thing that bit him, that's to blame."

Becker doesn't want to agree, but he nods anyway. Saying that it is all to do with the creature removes responsibility - and he doesn't want to think that last night was all about the poison. Connor had been there with him, long before the pain had taken hold. Connor had kissed him, wanted him, thrown caution to the wind.

He holds his tongue. Abby is hurting and he isn't going to poke an open wound.

"I'm sorry," he says, but she shakes it away.

"It's not your fault," she says, even if there are acidic tears in her eyes. "None of this was ever supposed to happen."

He thinks he preferred the anger to the pain. He could have easily handled a good punch or two. Bruises are neat, even when they're ugly. They heal quickly.

Abby leaves without waiting for him to reply - and he's glad for that, with the knot in his throat and the confusion spinning in his mind, he wouldn't know what to say to her. He's rapidly losing track of how he is supposed to make things better.

*

Before he leaves for the day, he makes a conscious effort to find Connor - even though Connor has been avoiding him all day, even though he knows that Philip fucked him at lunchtime, his turn on the rota. Becker has even managed to pretend that he hadn't notice the smug smile on Philip's face for the rest of the afternoon, the loose-limbed contentment that stopped him from being quite as over-bearing as usual.

Becker finds Connor in the laboratory, sitting on a stool with his shirtsleeve rolled up his arm. There is a woman in a white coat drawing blood from him, but Connor is chatting to her as if he doesn't even notice the invasion.

When Becker enters, he slips in and stands near the doorway, holding his tongue and waiting for the procedure to be over. He has to fight back the instinctive toe-curling reaction at the sight of a needle: for a man who's handy with a gun, he's never managed to get over that gut reaction. The twitch of a smile on Connor's face implies that the paling of his skin is highly noticeable.

He doesn't come any further into the room until the needle-wielding scientist is well out of the way and Connor has a little plaster on the inside of his elbow. A quick glance at Connor's bare arm shows a series of small bruises, little puncture wounds slowly healing. Becker hadn't noticed them the night before. He had been rather thoroughly distracted.

"Abby came to see me," Becker says, after they've tried out the awkward small talk. Connor looks down, asks how she was, and there's more than one answer to that: "Upset. Angry. Hurt. What happened?"

Connor picks up a pen from the bench top and clicks it repeatedly. "She broke up with me," he says, before he frowns. "Or I broke up with her. I'm not quite sure which one, actually."

"It was a mutual thing?"

"Well. It was mostly me failing at being a boyfriend, to be honest. We just both gave up at the same time." He frowns, a little line forming down the centre of his forehead. "It's weird, y'know. I've been in love with her for - what? Five years now? We survived in the Cretaceous for a year together. This all feels a bit anticlimactic."

Becker nods. It's better this way, he thinks, than something uglier down the line, but that doesn't mean that this can be easy. Connor still won't look at him, fiddling with his pen instead, and for a brief moment Becker wonders if this is the sort of moment where he is supposed to hug Connor to make him feel better, before he dismisses that idea entirely. Somehow, healing sex seems less awkward.

"Are you alright?" he checks.

Connor shrugs. "Not really." He pauses, before he says, "I kind of don't have anywhere to stay tonight, though. One bedroom apartment. Might be kind of weird if I turn up to share the bed." He cringes, shoulders raised, but Becker allows himself to relax: here is one problem that he really can help with.

"You can stay at mine," he offers. "It's no problem."

He has a couch, or Connor can share the bed with him if he's comfortable with it; they can work the details out later, once the dust has settled, once they can work out what shape 'normal' is going to take.  


*

After they've talked it over, they shift the rota so that Becker can handle all of Connor's poisoned requirements: sex four times a day. It's more exhausting than Becker would have imagined, but he tries not to complain. He isn't the one whose asshole is being pounded, after all. Connor is definitely worse off.

As a flatmate, Connor is a tyrant: completely messy and utterly inconsiderate, as if he doesn't even see the chaos that drops around him. Becker has to get used to damp towels dumped on the floor and dishes abandoned haphazardly wherever they are finished with. By the time Connor has been in his apartment for a day, it looks as if a herd of teenagers have moved in - and, surprising himself, Becker doesn't mind it. He might sigh as he tidies up, and he shoots Connor the kind of glare that could kill a lesser being, but he can handle it.

"Let us know if you need any help," Lester tells him when he takes over the rota. Lester's face is purposefully blank, and the least scathing that Becker has ever known. "We need you alert, not worn out."

"I won't allow this to impact my professional performance," he promises, shoulders straight, chin raised, but there's something that feels like a giggle caught in his chest. He worries that spending too much time with Connor might be rubbing off on him.

"You'd better not," Lester says, but it's the only warning that he seems inclined to give. He waves his hand in the direction of the door out of his office. "Go, then. Don't you have lizards to chase?"

Becker doesn't, actually. The ARC is abnormally quiet today, and in a way he's glad for that. A peaceful ARC means that there are no creatures on the prowl in the outside world; no deaths, no messes to clear up.

It adds to the windowless, airless atmosphere of the ARC, though, and it feels as if everyone is waiting for something to happen, as if there is something lurking beneath their skin that just won't allow them to rest. Connor is in his lab, Abby is in the menagerie, Jess is glued to her computers and Becker has lost track of where Matt has got to: skulking around somewhere or other, no doubt. He's awfully good at that, Becker has noticed.

At lunch time, he meets Connor in the locker room and takes him into the showers, allowing the water to pour down with steam misting around them while he takes him just before the pain comes. Connor gives himself over in deep gasps and needy moans, and they spend the rest of the afternoon with damp hair. At the end of the day, he meets Connor when it's time to go home. He drives; Connor takes the passenger seat. They stop for food unless Becker feels like cooking, and they fuck again either before or after they eat. They watch television together, fighting over the remote, and Becker goes for another shower before they get into bed. In the small hours of the morning, Connor will wake him up by desperately shaking his shoulder, before straddling him and sliding down, eased and experienced by now. It won't take long for both of them to come, and while Becker sleeps he keeps Connor in his arms. In the morning, it starts all over again.

The routine is exhausting.

*

They put up with it because they don't particularly have any other choice. It's difficult, but after a while it becomes normal: sex four times a day, fitting work around it. Connor complains from time to time and Becker is careful to be as gentle as he can, but it's easier than he had imagined. Normality always wins out.

In the back of his mind, there is always that quiet, niggling voice that whispers to him, telling him to be thankful for Connor's accident: it tells him that he wouldn't have any of this without that poison, that Connor and Abby would still be happily together and he would be left by himself, as it should be. He is profiting from this casualty, and he should feel far more guilty about it than he does.

There's more to it than the sexual requirements. Connor sleeps in his bed; they share meals; they bicker and cuddle like real couples to. There's more to it than the poison. There has to be.

(Yet there's that voice, always, telling him the truth, telling him how the dice have really fallen.)

They've been together for weeks when he first overhears the news, crowed by Philip to Lester in yet another part of their perpetual one-up-manship, like it's a game, a winning play on a chess board.

"It was all quite simple once we broke it down, of course." Becker can't see his face, but he can imagine the shark-sharp grin on Philip's face. "No bother at all."

"And it works? There are no side-effects?"

"You sound disappointed, Lester."

"Connor's a valued member of the team. Sometimes." Lester clears his throat. By this point, Becker is listening in so hard that it's a surprise he hasn't strained a muscle in his ears. "Forgive me for being cautious."

"He's fine. We'll keep an eye on him and watch out for any mishaps. In the meantime, I'd suggest some positivity. I've just brought normality back to this place. A 'thank you' might be in order."

Lester seems unwilling to play into Philip's request, blustering instead, but Becker tunes out of the conversation when it seems that he isn't going to pick up any more details. He takes a glance at the screens around Jess's workspace, and wanders away when it seems that there isn't any danger on the horizon just yet.

He finds Connor in Philip's lab, and enters despite knowing that he isn't supposed to enter he doesn't back off. He slips inside and finds Connor sitting at the lab-bench, staring at a pair of tightly topped vials.

Becker clears his throat and Connor looks up obediently, the glazed look in his eyes showing that his thoughts had been a long way from here. He smiles at Becker, and moves towards him, his hands skimming over Becker's hips before settling in a light grip. "How's your morning been?" he asks: no world-shattering admissions of progress.

Becker frowns, but he gives a report, detailing his morning and all of the routine that he has wandered through. He doesn't mention the conversation that he overheard.

Connor doesn't mention it either.

It's difficult to pay attention to anything throughout the day, knowing that something is different, knowing that something is wrong. Connor doesn't say a thing during their lunchtime fuck, riding on Becker's cock as if everything is normal, and Becker doesn't dare to ask a single question. He clings onto Connor's hips and flips them over half-way through, driving into Connor's body as if this might be his last chance. He steals frantic kisses from Connor's mouth and memorises the taste, just in case something's happened, just in case this is the last time.

Afterwards, Connor cleans up and still doesn't mention anything - so Becker tries to convince himself that there's nothing to tell, that he misheard the conversation or interpreted it incorrectly. The logical part of his brain knows that those are open lies, but he can attempt to squash that down if that is what Connor needs him to believe.

On the drive home, Connor taps his fingers against the passenger's window of Becker's car as the streets crawl past. "Want to go out for dinner tonight?" Connor asks, the question bursting out into the silence. "I'll pay."

Becker frowns, but wets his lips and carries on. "Are you trying to woo me, Connor? Flowers would do," he breezes, daring to smirk. "I'm a sure thing, I assure you."

"I'm trying to be a gentleman," Connor says - and he's starting to smile now, at least. "The least you could do is be a bit ladylike."

"I'll wear my best bonnet."

He sees Connor hide a smirk and he smiles to himself as he drives, allowing Connor to pick the restaurant as they head into town instead of straight home. There is an uncomfortable buzz in the centre of his chest, but he tries to ignore it in the interests of having a good, easy night. He might be too tense to make proper conversation, but Connor is able to pick up the slack, talking into the silence as if he doesn't notice that anything is wrong. Connor might be unobservant at times, but he isn't dim; Becker would guess that he can sense that something is different about him, but he's choosing not to follow up on it. _No doubt he has his reasons_ , Becker thinks, telling himself not to question it. As a soldier, it should be easy.

It's not.

There's nothing, no word at all, throughout their quick shag after dinner, or during the drive home, or while they watch television together in the evening. It is only at night, when Becker is brushing his teeth in front of the mirror, that Connor approaches with a worried look on his face. He lurks in the doorway, hanging back. Becker notices that he has his shoes on, even if he usually spends his time in the flat in just his socks, purposefully sliding about on the wooden flooring.

"There's something I should tell you," Connor says, picking at the edge of the door handle. Becker stops brushing, hunched over the sink, and looks in the mirror. He can already feel that sick churning in his stomach. "Probably should've told you earlier, actually, but I couldn't work out how. I just... It's Philip. Well, his scientists. They think they've worked it out."

Becker already knows what 'it' is, but he leans over to spit into the sink, just to give himself an extra moment to think. Turning around, he knows that it still wasn't nearly enough time. "What is it?"

"The cure. Or, I mean, they say it's not a 'cure', exactly, but it'll slow things down. Make it hurt less, and come less often. A lot less often."

Becker tries to ignore the sense of disappointed panic in his chest - because he knows that that isn't the right reaction. This is good news; it's what they've both wanted. It's what is best for Connor.

"How 'less often'?" he asks cautiously. His expression is as controlled as he can make it.

Connor rubs the back of his neck and shrugs with the other shoulder. "I dunno, exactly. Maybe once a week, a little less?"

That is a drastic reduction, and even with the sense that this is going to allow Connor to slip away from him, back to Abby where he belongs, Becker smiles. This is exactly what they've needed: a break, a return to normality. He couldn't have expected, or even wanted, Connor to stay like this forever. Physically, neither one of them could have coped.

"That's good," he says eventually, nodding with far more enthusiasm than is needed at all, or than he would ever be able to naturally convey. Connor's eyes widen. "Really good."

"Yeah," Connor says. "I actually knew for most of the day, just didn't say anything. I mean. I should've - that was a shitty thing to do. I'm sorry, y'know."

"It's alright." Becker crosses his arms over his chest. It makes him feel manlier - and slightly more able to have this conversation. "I actually already knew."

"You did?"

"Sort of. I overheard Lester and Philip talking about it. They're terrible gossips."

Connor's mouth bursts in amusement, but it lasts less than a second. "So you knew what I was doing the whole time? It's creepy, isn't it?"

"What?" Becker gets the feeling that he's missing the point.

"I didn't tell you. I let you shag me without telling you that you didn't have to do it any more."

Becker nods slowly. The remorse still doesn't make sense: "It was... sweet of you, Connor." That's not the right word, not at all, but it's the closest that he can get. "Kind."

Connor is looking at him as if he's started talking Martian (although, considering how much time he spends watching sci-fi, Connor would probably be able to speak any number of alien languages) before he frowns. "I thought you'd want to stop," Connor says, speaking slowly as if he isn't sure if Becker can understand him. "This, me and you, it's not necessary any more, and you didn't even want to get into it in the first place, not really. I get that. And I figured you'd want me out of here pretty quickly after I told you, so I thought I would put it off for a day or so."

Becker thinks, without a doubt, that Connor might be the smartest idiot that he's ever met.

"You have a very selective memory," he informs Connor as he walks forward. "Do you remember why I didn't want to get mixed up in this in the first place?"

Connor frowns, and Becker dares to step right in front of him, placing his hands on his hips to ease him forward. Flush together, there's something about the physical way that Connor fits against him that makes Becker respond, as if there is a creature in his chest that can only respond to Connor's presence.

"I wanted you," Becker reminds him, when Connor doesn't seem able to answer. "Very badly."

"I remember," Connor says. He's staring determinedly at Becker's neck, as if raising his gaze the last inch or two is just too much work. "I just- Y'know. After everything..."

Connor can be an idiot at the best of times.

In some cases, Becker has discovered, the best remedy is to kiss him to force him to shut up.

Lips soft, he trails them over Connor's parted mouth, gentle as he swallows Connor's worries. He is waiting, still, for Connor to come to his senses and push him away. He expects hands on his chest to shove him backwards, but instead Connor's palm comes to rest against the nape of his neck, holding him close. They're captured, both of them.

Becker hasn't felt safer in years.

*

"Let's pull a sickie," Connor groans when Becker's alarm clock goes off the next morning. He rolls onto his front, one arm sprawling lazily over Becker's stomach.

Becker curls his arms around him, after flailing loosely towards the alarm to shut it up. Connor is pliant and heavy-limbed at this time of day, fighting against the sunlight. "Technically, you're cured. That's the opposite of ill."

"I have a headache. The plague." Connor shuffles closer, pauses, and allows a smirk to appear on his face. "My arse hurts."

Becker snorts laughter through his nose. "I claim full responsibility for that one."

Yet they hadn't had sex last night after Connor had given him the news. They had kissed instead, slow and careful, before lying in with each other, with no agony forcing the pace. When they tired, they had drifted to sleep in a bed with unstained sheets.

"I mean it. Let's take the day off. You must have tons of annual leave."

"We can't just 'take a day off'. The fabric of the universe is likely to fall apart without us on scene."

Connor shoves at his shoulder, making no impact at all. "If the world starts ending, they can call us," he protests.

Becker wonders what Abby will make of that (what Connor will think of what Abby makes of that) and he knows that there might be some uncomfortable confrontations in their future. He strokes his fingers along Connor's arm thoughtfully and nods: they can cross that bridge when it appears. In the meantime, he wants every second that he can get, every moment that he will be allowed to relish.

"I'll let Lester know," he says, reaching for the phone. Never let it be said that he isn't brave.

At his side, Connor groans and starts to roll over to go back to sleep. Becker keeps a hand on his heated skin as he makes the call, watching with a soft gaze - there's still a part of him that is waiting for the trick ending, convinced that he isn't going to be allowed his own happily ever after.


End file.
